


A Curious World

by eldritcher



Series: The Journal of Fingolfin [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:45:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set right after Morgoth returns from the battle with Fingolfin. Since he is hobbling and not very happy, he is confined to armchair philosophy. Sauron keeps him company. From Sauron’s POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Curious World

Every rebel ends up either by becoming an oppressor or a heretic. "

 

×××

 

I sighed in relief when the sounds of battle ceased. It could not be long now. The brilliantly foolish king must have been smitten to dust by my lord’s hammer. 

“He comes!” our heralds shouted and I hastened to receive him.

For the first time, I saw him harmed. And it was not a very pleasing sight to stomach. His left foot was severed and black blood oozed out with a sickening stench. Crinkling my sensitive nose, I hurried to his side, bidding our minions depart as I did so.

“Seven?”

“Eight,” he spat, his face a study in anger. 

“Ah, I wouldn’t call a clear amputation a wound,” I pointed at his foot. He glowered at me for a long instant before muttering something about how he should have sent me to face that mad king.

“But I would have won, my lord,” I said confidently, helping him out of his mail without awaiting his assent.

“Claim you that you are mightier than me?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice.

“Of course not!” I scoffed. “The mad king had a thousand reasons to battle you, and none to battle me. You did kill his father and you supervised his brother’s death too. And there was the matter of the extended hospitality we persuaded his nephew to accept. He would have been at his avenging best in battling you.”

“He did shout something about avenging them,” Melkor grumbled. “It was a pity that I had to kill him. He made a beautiful sight, you know, with that shining shield, coat of mail, sharp blade and fey grace.”

“No wonder you were distracted enough to lose your foot,” I chuckled. He shot a warning glare at me. But I did not take heed. He was easily handled, once one knew how to achieve that. 

“Shall I?” I knelt before him and inspected the bleeding foot. 

“It cannot be healed.”

He was right. None of his wounds could be healed, we found much to our dismay. There was nothing to be done but to let them fade with time. I prepared a soothing concoction of herbs and applied the liniment to his wounds. 

“Was he as fiery as his brother?”

“Very. He did cut off my foot, after all!” 

“Well, you shall be glad to hear that we had no trouble with any of the other flanks of attack,” I told him. “The princes of Dorthonion have been slain. We hear reports that Finrod Felagund has been captured by our commanders. Of the sons of your old workmate, Caranthir, Amrod, Amras have fled to Amon Ereb. They can be quelled easily. Celegorm and Curufin are fleeing to Nargothrond. They say Maglor is dead. I sent Glaurung to conquer that region.”

“That is excellent!” he crowed happily. I could not help a grin myself. Forgetting all about his foot, he rose and then pain flashed across his features. I tutted and helped him back into the armchair again.

“Can we press onwards and take Hithlum?” he asked me.

I tilted my head to the side, pondering his question. He smiled wryly and said, “Let it be the truth.”

“The lord of lies asks the truth of me?” I teased.

“I lie less frequently than you do.” Melkor raised his eyebrows, adopting as haughty a posture as he could with the medicinal bindings.

“I say that we halt. We cannot afford losses at this stage. If we were to press on, they will unleash their desperation on us. Fingon is his father’s son.” A grimace flitted over Melkor’s features. I continued, “And there is the Himring factor.”

Melkor hissed through his teeth and struck a fist on the iron-wrought table, exclaiming, “I asked you to kill him! You should have sent Glaurung!”

“I did!” I said frustrated. “It is not my fault that your pet fire-blower refused to near Himring. The last I heard, the pass of Aglon had been recaptured by them.”

“We should kill him before it is too late. He is charismatic, mad and dangerous; not a combination I wish to confront,” he said angrily. “What is the purpose of rearing an easily frightened dragon?”

“You know I harbour no fondness for dragons. But to be fair, Glaurung is not the only creature that fears the White Flame of Himring.”

“That is why we must kill the fey prince.”

“You could have killed him any moment when he had been at your mercy,” I told him acerbically.

He did not reply immediately. I watched as he leant back more comfortably against the headrest and gingerly placed his left foot on the stool I had set before him. 

“Have you seen Míriel Serindë?”

“Yes, many a time. Why?” 

I wondered where the question would lead to. His heart held only an allegiance to Varda. Why did Míriel Serindë matter?

“She was a jewel. Such beauty and wisdom, I have never seen in a woman of the Eldar. When she conceived, most of us knew that she would not survive the birthing bed. Hers was a fragile flame, too precious to linger in this world.” His eyes took a distant look and his lips curled. Despite myself, I found that I was enraptured by the low, sonorous tones in which he spoke.

“I was experimenting with capturing the abstract phenomena during those days.” He looked across me and I nodded to show that I understood what he meant. It was something that had always fascinated both of us. 

“Light, fire, air…I believe that the Maiar under Aulë and those who served me often conducted such experiments. I wanted more. I wanted to capture a soul.” He paused, his eyes boring into mine, searching for something I could not guess at.

“Why a soul?” I asked him, hopelessly curious about his early days. He rarely spoke of Varda or the hazy beginnings of his descent into what he was now.

“A soul is the most precious thing. Anything else can bought. But a soul is elusive. Some barely have it. Some, like Serindë, shine with the light of their soul. Some, like my unfortunate workmate, are consumed by their soul.”

“Míriel Serindë had the purest soul?” I asked him, bewildered by his train of thought. 

What did souls have to do with anything? Capturing souls would be a pioneering achievement. But what purpose would it serve?

He chuckled, clearly reading my thoughts. Then he said simply, “I wanted her soul. I wanted to encase it in one of my creations, rather than letting it waste away in Mandos. I thought it might be helpful.”

I understood it immediately. He could never have Varda. He would never love anyone again. But he craved to find a measure of peace. And foolishly, he had tried to capture Míriel’s soul and encase it in an elven body crafted in Varda’s image.

“Have you ever been known what it is to want something you cannot have?” he asked me quietly.

“No,” I said frankly. “I cannot say that I have wanted anything that badly.”

“Then you are lucky.”

He was about to fall into one of those destructive, brooding moods which always reduced the population of orcs, for so unrestrained would be his wrath at such times. I had to pull him out of that before it worsened.

“What happened?” I asked him. “How did you try to take her soul?”

“Irmo was in league with me. Through dreams and draughts, we sapped her strength and will. She had a core of pure metal. At the end, as she lay breathing her last in Irmo’s gardens, I came to her and promised her a renewed life with Finwë and her son in exchange for her soul. She defied me and sundered her bond with her husband before passing into Mandos. She told me that she would never sully his love with my taint, for her life would bear my mark if she accepted my offer.”

I stood flabbergasted. That he had been in league with Irmo to snatch souls was shocking. That he had asked her openly was yet another terrifying thought. Why had he gone to such extreme measures to create an image of Varda when the matter could have been done with any woman? Míriel had refused him. And he held her in no less regard despite that. There were days when I wondered if he was as fallen as he was said to be.

“Her grandson reminds me of her; her eyes and her grace. I could never slay him in cold blood when those eyes disturbingly held the same emotion as Míriel’s had at the end; defiance. That is why I did not kill him after killing Finwë that day. I was also hoping that Fëanáro might be bitter that his son survived while his beloved father hadn’t. I admit that I hadn’t counted on his unpredictability.” he finished his narrative. He looked up with a wicked grin and said, “Of course, I ensured that his firstborn paid in full for all the defiance his family had shown, and shall show.”

“I poisoned him, under your orders. He did not die.” It was almost an accusation and his eyes narrowed. 

“I wanted to grant him as painless a death as I could, without seeming merciful,” he barked. “But I had not counted on his tenacious will to live.”

“It would have been a mercy to kill him cleanly when we had him rather than waiting for the end your brother has probably planned out for him.”

“He’s too dangerous. I plan to kill him long before that!” He glared at me. “Or do you plan to bungle our plans again?”

“Unless you wish me to don the garb of a human soldier, enter his service and attempt to assassinate him, I don’t see how I can kill him in the near future. Not even the best of our commanders dares facing him in battle.”

“You are acquiring a sense of outrageous sarcasm that I must guard against!” he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming in the low lamplight. “Desist, I say!”

I laughed and said with mock deference, “As my lord commands.”

“Do have a care. You may never know what I might ask of you,” he said sardonically, gazing at me with affection.

It had changed much over the years; the manner of his gaze. At first, it was the fondness of a master for his best student. Then it had changed to the focused gaze of a ruler who listens to his trusted counsellor. Later, recently, it had become the comradeship of fellow craftsmen. 

We would sit in those hot chambers, working silently at our own tasks, without a word passing between us for hours, yet feeling the reassuring weight of companionship lingering in the air. We would often come out of the subterranean dwellings at night, for he loved to walk under the stars. I had no such fancies, but it was always a pleasure to walk beside him, debating philosophy and morality. On such nights, I would often behold the weary, tormented heart which sat deeply concealed under the cold, black mind that imprisoned it. 

“On the contrary,” I said, seized by a sudden desire to test the nature of our comradeship, “you are my lord and I am bound to obey your commands.”

“I don’t hold with the Valinorean principles of fiefdoms and vassals. You follow me of your own choice,” he said. 

“If I were to desert your cause?” 

“Then you should best pray that you are not caught and dragged back,” he suggested. “After all, you are too deep in my counsels.”

I smiled to alleviate the sensitive nature of the subject and knelt down beside him to inspect his crippled foot, the flesh of which was slowly healing shut over the gory disfigurement. He sighed when I began kneading his calf. Pleased that he was not complaining, I pushed away the stool and brought the maimed foot into my lap, seating myself so that his leg was suspended over my shoulder. 

“You have a healer’s touch,” he remarked, “and I find that ironic that a torturer would possess such delicacy of touch.”

“Torture is a fine art, my lord,” I retorted. “It requires great delicacy and precision as you might have noticed when I handle my subjects.”

“I suppose that is a milder term than victims,” he said caustically.

I brought his right leg over my other shoulder and began ministering the same treatment, relishing the quiet breath of contentment that he exhaled.

“Have you ever regretted following me?” he asked, after what had been a long, companionable silence, broken only the odd log shifting in the fireplace.

I wondered what had brought it on. It certainly seemed to be his night of self-introspection. I adjusted my posture into a more comfortable alignment before giving my answer.

“I don’t think I do. Valinor was boring and offered me little but eternal thralldom under Aulë. Here life is vibrant, and diverse. I have always been fascinated by men. They are easier to bend to our will. And yes…” I paused thoughtfully, “I have always wanted to subjugate others to my will. It is my core ambition.”

“You are not repulsed by the ungainly forms of the orcs or some of the other minions. I had noticed that,” he said. “It is something I find repulsive. I am drawn to beauty and the art of capturing and creating it. You are drawn to power and people. Little wonder why we make such an excellent dyad.”

“Did you ever succeed in encasing a soul?” 

“Changing from philosophy to more practical questioning?” I knew without turning back to look at him that he was smiling. 

“I am curious, very much so.”

“I know how to accomplish that.” He did not speak again for a long time, letting the words hang enticingly in the air between us. I did not interrupt. I knew he would speak when he was of a mind to.

“Fëanáro learnt the art from me. He was able to succeed, at his very first attempt.” 

Defeat and the sting of bruised ego coloured those words. He hated Fëanor. In fact, I think he hated Fëanor almost as much as he hated Manwë. I had often wondered why.

“He had no powers that you did not have,” I said incredulously. “Why could he achieve what you hadn’t?”

“Aulë had an answer,” Melkor said wearily. I turned to see him staring at the night sky that peeped in coyly through the small window. 

“Perhaps Fëanáro learnt something from Manwë?” I suggested.

“He did nothing of the sort. He was too proud, and he didn’t need the aid. What he needed, he already had. He needed only his soul.” He smiled wryly at my baffled features. “Fëanáro poured his soul into the Silmarilli. That is why they shall not bear my touch. He lives on in them. Within the jewels, according to Aulë, is contained Fëanáro’s love for family. The emotions he lived have left their mark on his greatest work. You will recall that the Silmarilli never stopped glowing red when Fëanáro’s son was our guest. They were bleeding for him. ”

“That is why you wanted to capture Fëanáro alive!” I gasped in understanding. “You wanted his soul.”

“Being the contrary creature that he ever was, he burned himself into ashes rather than allowing me to even attempt snaring his soul.” I could discern grudging admiration in his voice. “Of course, I had another chance when we captured his son. In retrospect, I fear that we might have done a mistake. All we succeeded in doing was strengthening his will.”

“They are tenacious creatures,” I remarked. “If they weren’t so willful and set in their ways, we would have profited from an alliance with them. They are more heretical than the most filthy-mouthed goblin.”

A bark of laughter escaped him before he said, “Manwë might make easy our task and kill them himself.”

“His eagle carried away your dead opponent,” I remarked.

“Not under his instruction,” he said quietly. “The king had Varda’s favour. I saw it in his eyes. Her stars shine down upon their house.”

“I hadn’t thought that she would favour a brood of heretics,” I said.

“I cannot understand it either. But fighting the king today was fighting Varda herself.” His voice faltered for the first time. “It was she who wounded me. It was her scream of fury that I heard when I smote him with my hammer.”

I did not know how to express my credulity at this declaration. So I rose to my feet and said smoothly, “Perhaps we may view things differently after you are well rested.”

“I speak the truth,” he hissed. “We must slay them all before she risks more in their favour.”

I did not reply, but nodded dutifully. For my part, I did not believe in this fanciful tale. Varda was a coward. She was a woman. And she was a Vala. How could she be anything but a coward? Hadn’t she already proved it by choosing Manwë over Melkor? It would seem that my lord was simply seeing her in others. 

Stars shining down upon the house of Finwë indeed! 

“Let us go out,” Melkor commanded.

I nodded and helped him to his feet. We kept a slow pace so that he could hobble along without falling behind me. Finally, when we were out of the palace, he inhaled the hot sulphurous fumes of the pits and sighed. I glanced up at the Thangorodrim, which seemed a black shadow against the dark sky.

I frowned.

“There are no stars shining down upon us,” Melkor said bitterly.

“It is a starless night,” I told him. “There will be no stars.”

He shook his head obstinately and cast a sweeping gaze across the skies. His lips parted in silent astonishment and he pointed west. I cupped a hand above my eyes and peered.

I could discern the shadowy outline of the hill of Himring. Often have I wondered why Maedhros chose to make such a desolate place his abode, and one facing the Thangorodrim at that. Maybe it was yet another facet of his insanity. 

“Above the castle,” Melkor commanded.

Obediently, I looked up. And gasped promptly. For above the hill, shone bright and ominous, the sickle of doom; the Valacirca. Why had Varda veiled all her stars but that constellation? Twinkling down innocently, amidst its companions, was Carnil the red, the harbinger of destruction.

Melkor turned to face me, his eyes wide in amazement.

I shrugged saying, “We will have to kill them soon. Who would have thought that destroyers like you and I merit less punishment in the eyes of the Valar than those whose sin constitute of pride and rebellion?”

“It is a curious world, my dear friend. Blasphemy is punished by hell and brimstone while destruction is turned a blind eye to. The Valar care not for the denizens of the world, obsessed as they are with bringing the blasphemers to judgement.” 

"In some ways, you are right. The scions of Finwe have more in common with us than with those who rule Valinor. They are rebels, just as we are. Every rebel ends up either by becoming an oppressor or a heretic. We turned into the former while they have embraced the latter," I observed.

Melkor tilted his head in wry acknowledgement before giving Carnil an appraising look. Then he hobbled back into his subterranean palace. I shook off my thoughts and followed him, already plotting the next blow that we would deal the scions of Finwë. 

That they and Melkor shared so many commonalities and yet would fight to the bitter end where but one would prevail was ironic. It was a curious world indeed.

×××

 

References:

Carnil – the red star of the constellation ‘Great Bear’.  
Valacirca – the ‘Great Bear’ constellation.

"Every revolutionary ends up either by becoming an oppressor or a heretic." - Albert Camus. I modified the revolutionary to 'rebel'. 

Canon: The Silmarillion.  
Morgoth went ever halt of one foot after that day, and the pain of his wounds could not be healed.  
(I still laugh when I imagine a hobbling Morgoth)

The Song of Sunset:  
1\. The Truth Behind The Stars (Melkor & Varda)  
2\. The Journal of Fingolfin (Fingolfin)  
3\. The Emissary (Maedhros, Finrod)

 

×××


End file.
